The Bakken Blade

by Jeff Siebold

  “Either that, or they were just following gang orders, doing their assignment and unaware of the bigger connections,” she said.

  “That would be safer for Forester,” said Zeke.

  Chapter 20

  “So you’re here in the Keys for the weekend?” asked Zeke.

  “The government calls it ‘flex time’. But I’m combining it with Veterans’ Day and…yep, I’m here for a long weekend,” said Tracy. “Wouldn’t want you to forget about me…”

  “Not much chance of that,” said Zeke, feigning seriousness.

  They were sitting on the outside veranda of Zeke’s rental cottage in Marathon, watching the sun reflect off the bright blue water. An obscure Jimmy Buffett song was playing in the living room behind them.

  “You’re getting this swimsuit thing down pretty well,” said Zeke. “Looks nice.” Tracy was wearing a red two-piece bikini, visible under a thin white cover-up. She was barefoot, with her feet pulled up into the oversized beach chair. Her nails were painted the same shade of red as her bikini.

  “Mmm,” she said. She closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath of the warm salt air. The only sounds were the lapping ocean and occasionally the hoarse, croaking call of an excited egret. “I could live here.”

  Zeke sat in a matching chair. He wore Billabong board shorts and Rainbow flip-flops.

  After a pause, he said, “I think we’re getting closer to the truth.”

  “About your parents’ deaths?”

  “Yes. The fisherman named some names and I’ve been running down their whereabouts. Some of them are dead or disabled, but a couple are still around. Old, but still around.”

  “What’s your plan?” asked Tracy. Her dark eyes were wide and brilliant and listening attentively.

  “I plan to spend every possible moment with you,” said Zeke. “Enjoying all of this goodness.”

  Tracy smiled. “That suits me just fine,” she purred.

  “We’d better go inside, though,” said Zeke. “You don’t want to burn.”

  Tracy adjusted her legs in the chair and closed her eyes. “OK. In a minute,” she said.

  * * *

  “Sometimes you make sounds like an egret,” said Zeke.

  Tracy said, “What?”

  They were naked, lying under a ceiling fan and across the four-poster bed, covered only with a light sheet. Sunlight invaded the small bedroom.

  “Nothing,” said Zeke. “That was an excellent idea.”

  “I think it was your idea, originally,” said Tracy.

  Zeke looked at her.

  “No, it was a collaboration,” she said thoughtfully. “And a successful one.”

  Zeke kissed her gently on the lips.

  “Don’t start anything, now…” she said. He kissed her again, gently.

  “That’s not fair,” she whispered. And then she kissed him back.

  * * *

  “‘Skinny’ Gonzalez. Jerry Cabot. Billy Forester. Captain Brown. I think they’re all septuagenarians,” said Zeke.

  “Sounds like the over-the-hill gang,” said Tracy.

  “Really. But apparently they were bad-ass thirty or forty years ago. Caused all kinds of trouble up and down the Keys back then. Trying to keep it for themselves,” said Zeke.

  “But wouldn’t they have prospered from the tourism?” asked Tracy.

  “They were obsessive. Too territorial. And parochial. They missed the bigger picture. Just wanted it to stay like it was, or something like that.”

  “What are we going to do? Track down a handful of senior citizens and hold them accountable?” asked Tracy.

  Zeke looked at her. “I think that’s exactly what we’re going to do.”

  Tracy thought about it for a minute. Then she said, “OK, I’m in. Where do we start?”

  * * *

  “This guy, Brown, the way Parks described him, may be the weakest link of the group,” said Zeke.

  “What did he say?” asked Tracy. They were driving Zeke’s BMW north on US Highway 1, heading toward Key Largo. It was a spectacular day.

  “Said Brown was ‘sorta half in and half out,’ and that he wasn’t as committed as the rest. Sounded like he’s sort of independent.”

  “Why do you think he’d be the weakest link?” Tracy asked.

  “Partly elimination. Billy Forester, the former sheriff, I imagine he’s got a lot of confidence and a lot of connections, still. So he’ll be tougher to rattle.”

  “I can see that,” she said.

  “And one old guy, Jerry Cabot, is in a nursing home in Miami. Has some sort of dementia, according to Parks,” said Zeke.

  “OK, and?” Tracy asked.

  “There’s a guy living on Little Torch Key by the name of Skinny Gonzalez. They say he has a pile of money now. So he may have a lot to lose…”

  Tracy nodded.

  “We’ll leave Skinny Gonzalez for later. But one guy’s in Key Largo, living with his daughter. Sounds like he would be the one to talk with first. And the daughter could be leverage.” Zeke was thinking aloud now.

  Zack Brown’s “Knee Deep” was streaming from the BMW’s speakers, belying the seriousness of Zeke’s plan. Tracy sang along quietly.

  “What’s his full name?” asked Tracy.

  “Captain Brown,” said Zeke.

  “Is that a rank?” asked Tracy, momentarily confused.

  “Nope. His parents named him ‘Captain’. Don’t have a clue why,” said Zeke. “Parks said he’s old school. His family’s been here for a couple generations.”

  “How’d you get his address?” asked Tracy.

  “I called my new friend Susie Franklin at the Monroe County Sheriff’s office. She was happy to help.”

  Tracy nodded to herself in rhythm to the beat and said, “This is as intense as I’ve seen you. Are you sure you’re OK?”

  * * *

  “You’re the guy who broke in on Owen Parks and his boy, aren’t ya?” said the man. “He called me and said you’d probably be by. Didn’t expect you so soon, though.”

  He was a short, stout man with muscular forearms and small, round ears that stood out perpendicular to his head. He was bald with a few wisps of white hair around his ears.

  Zeke gave him a smile. “If you’re Captain Brown, then yep, I’m that guy.”

  Brown turned stiffly and looked toward the small house. Then he looked back at Zeke.

  “I don’t think I can help you, though,” he continued. He looked at Tracy.

  “Is this the girl who was with you when you did it?” he asked.

  “No, actually that was a different girl. She was muscle.”

  Brown looked at Zeke, then he nodded.

  “Parks is an ass,” he said. “Small-minded. Doesn’t want change. Won’t spend any money. Always griping about something.”

  Zeke nodded. “There was an explosion near here. Thirty years ago. My parents were killed in it. I want to know who was responsible.” Short, declarative sentences sometimes worked best.

  Captain Brown shook his head.

  “Down in Marathon. A motorsailer named the West Wind went up in flames. I’m sure you heard about it,” Zeke continued.

  Something flashed behind the older man’s eyes, a hint of recognition. He said, “That was a long time ago.”

  “Yes, it was,” said Zeke.

  The house was a modest one-story, elevated on pylons and fronting on a secondary street. It had a shell driveway and a barrel tile roof and jalousie windows. It looked like it was from a different era.

  A woman who may have been about fifty came down the front steps and stood next to Captain Brown. “Everything OK?”

  Brown said, “This here’s Zeke Traynor. The girl is muscle. He’s here about an explosion that happened when you were twenty or so.”

  The woman’s face tightened like a fist for a moment, and she said, “An explosion?”

  “In Marathon. It was aboard a boat. My parents were killed,” said Zeke.

  �
��This here’s Stella,” said Captain Brown, indifferently. “My daughter.”

  “Hi, Stella,” said Tracy. She introduced herself. Then she said, “But I’m not the muscle. That’s a case of mistaken identity.”

  Stella looked confused, but rallied and said to Captain Brown, “Can I have a cigarette?”

  He took what remained of a soft pack from his front pants pocket and gave it to her. She liberated one and deftly lit it with a disposable lighter.

  Captain Brown took the pack back and slid it back into his pocket. “I don’t really know much about that. Just what I read in the paper, and what folks were saying.”

  Zeke said, “What were folks saying?”

  “Just that it was a horrible accident. A fuel line problem or something. And it left their boy an orphan with no family.” Brown stopped. “Wait, that was you…”

  “Who was behind it?” asked Zeke.

  Brown looked away. Then he rubbed his nose absently. “Don’t rightly know anything about that,” he said.

  “Was Skinny Gonzalez involved?” asked Zeke.

  Captain Brown looked up sharply.

  “Snyder?” asked Zeke.

  Brown looked anxious. “He’s dead.”

  “What about Jerry Cabot?” asked Zeke.

  Brown started shaking his head. “I don’t know anything for sure. But I know those boys had some crazy ideas back then. Wanted to keep the tourists out of the Keys. They tried to warn people off.”

  “But you didn’t agree with that plan?” asked Zeke, friendlier now.

  “Well, I wasn’t what you’d call ‘all in’ with their ideas. They included me some, but part of that was because of my dad. He was pretty political in Monroe County. Was a Commissioner a few times. Ran for Mayor once, like that.”

  “You said ‘Those boys’. Who were you talking about?”

  “Oh, well, Parks and Crabby. Real name’s Jerry. Jerry’s in a nursing home I think. Up in Miami. He’s been there since he had that stroke a few years ago.”

  “OK, who else?”

  “Well, you mentioned Skinny. And Snyder.”

  “I did,” said Zeke. “And?”

  Captain Brown stood mute, looking at the ground.

  “If your dad was in local politics, he probably knew the sheriff. That’s an elected position down here, right?”

  Brown nodded his head slightly, probably in answer to the second question.

  Zeke said, “Owen Parks said Billy Forester was involved with your group, too.”

  Brown looked up quickly.

  “Parks said Billy pretty much ran the group back then,” said Zeke.

  Captain Brown looked stunned. He looked at Tracy, a blank expression on his face. Then he started shaking his head. “No, no, that’s not right… But I don’t remember things so well now,” he said.

  * * *

  In the car, Zeke asked Tracy for her input.

  “I don’t know, really,” she said. “He was faking the memory loss, I’m sure,” she said.

  “He was. His responses were lucid and on point until that last part about Billy Forester. Then he pretended to switch it off.”

  Zeke’s smartphone rang, and he answered it.

  “Hello, Sally,“ he said. “What’s up?”

  “I may have found a connection, Zeke,” she said. “I think I know why your folks were killed.”

  Chapter 21

  Zeke and Tracy drove south after their meeting with Captain Brown, following the road to Little Torch Key in the Lower Keys. They stopped at a famous oceanside restaurant for a fish sandwich and a beer each before continuing over the Seven Mile Bridge.

  “The island’s named after the Sea Torchwood trees that grew here,” said Zeke as they turned right off the Overseas Highway onto the land spit. “They’ve been mostly cleared out for houses and mobile homes, though.”

  Tracy said, “This place is like a different world.”

  Zeke nodded and drove along a secondary road paved with sand and crushed shells. They passed mobile home after mobile home, propped up on blocks in yards that held old vehicles, small sun-faded fishing boats and miscellaneous yard furnishings, chairs and tables and lounges, most piled in a corner of the yard.

  “This is certainly a working class neighborhood,” said Tracy.

  Toward the north end of the island, Zeke followed the road as it curled to the right and emptied in front of an oceanfront estate. The yard was contained by a black wrought iron fence and a matching double gate, which prevented access to the paver stone driveway and immaculately landscaped front yard.

  The house was palatial, an impressive two-story affair on stilts with a green and beige front and copper appointments over the entry and the dormers. Through the first floor stilts they could see an unobstructed view of the Florida Bay, just yards from the back door. An Italian-style marble staircase curled up a story from the front of the house to the grand front door.

  “Nice digs,” said Zeke.

  “They certainly are,” said Tracy. “Is this the place?”

  “According to Susie it is,” said Zeke.

  There was a security alarm decal on a post outside the gate, and a call box with a button and speaker at typical drivers-window height. Zeke pushed the button and waited.

  Two minutes later the speaker cackled and a tinny voice said, “Yes?” Zeke couldn’t tell whether it was male or female.

  “It’s Zeke Traynor,” he said. “I called for an appointment.”

  “Sure, come on in,” said the voice. “Park out front and come up the front stairs.”

  * * *

  It turned out that the voice belonged to a tall, lithe, tanned girl who appeared to be in her late twenties or early thirties. She pulled the heavy mahogany door open and smiled at the visitors.

  “Hello,” she said. “I’m Cassy Gonzalez.” She seemed straightforward and innocent. Her accent was subtle.

  Zeke introduced himself and Tracy, and they stepped into a foyer with a light marble floor and a wall of windows looking east at the water.

  “Wow,” said Tracy.

  They were ushered into a sitting room at the back of the house that shared the same ocean view. They sat in overstuffed leather chairs facing the windows.

  Cassy Gonzalez said, “You called to talk with my grandfather. About the Keys, you said, thirty years ago? I’m afraid I wasn’t born then.” She smiled. “But he’s here. I’ll get him.”

  Zeke said, “Thank you, Cassy.”

  A few moments later, she returned, wheeling an elderly man into the room. His wheelchair was silent with thick, oversized tires, like a beach bike. He had a plaid blanket covering his lap.

  “This is Grandpa,” she said simply.

  Skinny Gonzalez was small and very thin, and he looked like he was dying. His skin was pale and drawn, and his face tight as if he were in chronic pain.

  “Who are you?” he said. His voice was a whisper. He had a pronounced Spanish accent.

  “We’re Federal agents,” said Zeke, exaggerating slightly. “Investigating the boat explosion that killed two people thirty years ago in Marathon.”

  Skinny Gonzalez looked at him, but he didn’t say anything. His lips pulled back over his teeth in a permanent grimace.

  “I’m sure Owen Parks called and talked with you, so you’re up to speed on what we’re doing,” Zeke continued.

  “Are you going to pull a gun on me, too?” Gonzalez asked. “Threaten to kill an old man?”

  “Do we need to?” asked Zeke.

  Gonzalez took a deep breath. “Look, my granddaughter is too trusting. She shouldn’t have let you in here.”

  “I think you wanted us to come in so you can figure out what we know and what evidence we have,” said Zeke. “I think you’re that clever.”

  “Parks said your parents were killed in that explosion,” said Gonzalez. “That true?” He wasn’t belligerent, but he was suddenly more aggressive.

  Zeke nodded. He noticed that Tracy had opened the clasp on
her purse for better access to her weapon.

  “Well, I don’t know anything about how that all went down,” said Gonzalez. “I heard about it. But I was building lobster traps that day. I wasn’t anywhere near Marathon.”

  “That’s probably true,” said Zeke. “But I think you and your friends planned the attack, and then Owen Parks and his boy carried out the plan.”

  “I think you’re crazy,” said Gonzalez. “Why would we do something like that?”

  “The FBI says there was an ongoing investigation of Billy Forester back then. They think he was running drugs, cocaine. A lot of conchs got into that in the late 1980s. Those records show that the FBI had a couple of witnesses. A married couple.”

  “Your parents?” asked Cassy Gonzalez. “You’re saying they were the witnesses?”

  * * *

  “Have you heard of the Medellin Cartel?” asked Zeke when he and Tracy were alone. They were driving back to their cottage.

  “Vaguely,” said Tracy. “I think that name was brought up in my Secret Service training. Why?”

  “Pablo Escobar was one of the leaders. The cartel’s business, their purpose was to bring cocaine into the United States.”

  “Were they successful?”

  “Wildly successful,” said Zeke. “At one point, there was more cocaine coming in to the States than there was coffee. Escobar was nicknamed the ‘King of Cocaine’ and had a net worth of about $30 billion. He was the wealthiest criminal in history.”

  “Whoa,” said Tracy, looking at Zeke.

  “Yeah,” said Zeke. “It was a huge machine. They were shipping almost 80 tons of cocaine to the United States monthly.”

  Tracy opened her mouth, then shut it again.

  “And they killed anyone who got in their way.”

  “What happened to Señor Pablo?”

  “He was in charge of the Cartel until he was gunned down by the Colombian National Police in 1993,” said Zeke. “But he was near the height of his power in 1989, when my folks died.”